


The Court (of miracles)

by Chromi



Series: Deuce-centric [27]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Ace is a court jester, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Anal Fingering, Attempt at Humor, Blow Jobs, Come Swallowing, Deuce is a prince, Explicit Sexual Content, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Melancholy, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Prostate Massage, The Author Regrets Everything, This Is STUPID, as in there's definitely a melancholic vibe to this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28942104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chromi/pseuds/Chromi
Summary: Ace, a court jester with nothing to lose, chooses blowing the youngest prince over living a long life."Better to die for sucking dick than living your whole life as an ignorant Fool. If I'm to hang in shame and ridicule anyway, I should at least take one good memory with me onto the stand."
Relationships: Masked Deuce/Portgas D. Ace
Series: Deuce-centric [27]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1576678
Comments: 15
Kudos: 36





	The Court (of miracles)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ariel_Lazarus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariel_Lazarus/gifts).



> I'm back on my bullshit, and I start by bringing you this monstrosity. 
> 
> I honestly don't know what I'm doing but hey, I'm back :D

The day begins as any other day.

Wake up. Dress. Eat.

Wonder, as always, if today will be the day that he snaps.

The kitchen staff are kind to him as he shovels his breakfast, hurried whispers and muffled giggles of the king's departure for the ceremony hot on their lips. The oldest prince is due to meet the princess of the neighboring country, as all in the castle well know; what they are not aware of is the fact that the king is quite enchanted by the princess' mother, hence accompanying his son on his week-long journey. But no matter. Ace knows – for Ace knows all that happens within the palace walls – and he intends to keep it that way.

“Your hat, dear,” one of the maids says later when he passes her in a corridor. There's a smudge of dirt on her nose from the fireplace, Ace assumes, and he thumbs it away for her as she hands him the hat that he detests with all his might. “I sewed the bells back on without any problems. Do try to make sure they don't fall off again.”

Her smile betrays her knowledge, but Ace thanks her all the same. The bells – both of them – had sadly parted ways with the hat following humiliation from the oldest prince the night before, where Ace's role of _jester_ had been the punchline of a mortally unfunny joke.

But, as ever, Ace's part had been played well, laughing where he instead wished to cry, remembering a time where once, far away from this country and its people, he would have been the one with his feet up on the table, enough food overflowing from his silver plate to stop his staff from fighting over scraps once everyone who _mattered_ had retired to bed.

It had only been the younger of the two princes who had not partaken in making a mockery of the court fool. Whether he hadn't grasped the punchline (as crudely suggested by his brother), or whether he was simply of a kinder leaning than the rest of them remained unconfirmed by the rest of his family, yet Ace knew.

Ace knows of Prince Deuce's tendency to treat others with a decency that their roles did not command of royalty, and, unlike the rest of his family, Ace respects that. Respects and loves the prince as a whole, from his preference for books over people to the way he is dismissed as _lesser_ by all.

But Ace does not see Deuce as lesser. Ace sees Deuce as better than any other monarch he has ever crossed paths with.

Better, even, than any other person, be they monarch or not, in fact.

... In every imaginable way.

It is the king and first prince's departure that riles Ace this particular morning that started off the same as any other day. Not with anger, no, but with something far more inappropriate for a lowly jester to feel. For there in the throne sits Deuce, reclining, already bored, flanked by his guards that he has been previously witnessed trying to engage with but failing spectacularly.

 _It must be lonely, being a prince like him,_ is the thought that crosses Ace's mind as he strikes up a tale off the top of his head in an attempt at entertaining his meagre crowd of three. _It must be lonely, knowing that you are being left to rot in a house of stone for the crime of being born second._

And so Ace, against all of his better judgement and with reckless abandon, speaks out of turn when Deuce yawns, bored through no fault of his own, trusted to do none of the things that his family might be doing right now, yet forced to play his part and keep up with appearances.

_We are but two fools of the court, you and I, filling roles we do not believe in and dancing for people who will put us to death should our feet falter._

“I bet I can get you to smile,” Ace grins, hoping that he radiates the confidence that he does not feel.

And so begins the start of his end, he is certain.

Because Deuce looks up at him through those long lashes, his chin firmly set on his knuckles, and flatly announces, “then you are more a fool than I have been led to believe.”

There's nothing cruel in his tone – no disparaging edge, no pathetic little hint of haughtiness – just the roll of the tongue of the perpetually bored and downtrodden. Sitting there, knowing full well that he will likely never be regarded as highly as his brother... Ace doesn't fault his attitude one bit.

“Perhaps,” Ace says cheerfully, “or perhaps I really can do something to brighten your day and put a big smile on your face.”

Deuce raises an eyebrow, and the guard on his right shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“Enlighten me.”

“Well,” Ace draws out the word in false deliberation, as if the idea that has sprung to mind is not one that he has toyed with for months, and certainly not one that has kept him company during the loneliest of nights, “I was thinking I could blow you, Your Highness.”

It is a credit to Deuce how he does not flinch at this suggestion – though both guards do, Ace can't help but notice. They bristle, barely containing themselves from glancing at each other, judging by the little jerks of their heads, and the one on Deuce's left brushes his palm to the hilt of his sheathed sword.

Ace almost wishes he would draw it.

Deuce instead snorts, a disbelieving grin starting to quirk the right corner of his mouth upwards.

“I take it you understand what that means?” Deuce clarifies. Ace nods. And then Deuce surprises him with an almost gentle, “then why would you offer to debase yourself like that? No one's asked you to do that before, have they?”

Of course they haven't, and Ace would never think to offer himself like this to any other member of the royal family (or anyone, for that matter). It's for him, and it's only for him, and Ace can't come up with a way to convey this without confessing that yes, he does linger too long on his nightly strolls in the rose garden just so he has a chance of glimpsing Deuce in his room.

“Absolutely not,” Ace says airily, “this is something I've just thought up, and your family aren't the under-handed gropey variety.”

Both of which are lies – he's seen the king among the maids, the queen with both of those guards flanking her youngest son – and it makes Ace feel sick. Deuce, however, remains the only member of the family to have never put his hands where they shouldn't be, as far as Ace can discern.

Deuce relaxes again, having straightened up with concern – which Ace appreciates more than he can ever let him know.

“And you believe you're skilled enough with your tongue to have any kind of effect on me?” Deuce, surprisingly, plays right along with Ace's ridiculous suggestion, finally appearing to be amused, the sullen droop to his posture and brow now lost. “That's very arrogant of you, Ace.”

“Not arrogance as such,” Ace says mildly. “I'd much prefer it if you thought me confident rather than arrogant.”

“I see. And where does this confidence in your abilities come from, exactly?”

_Inappropriate usage of carrots from the garden, mostly._

Ace coughs into his fist before saying, “one's imagination is a powerful tool, as I'm sure you'll agree, Your Highness.”

He had been referring to Deuce's rapid and almost terrifying consumption of fiction; how the prince has been known to read his way through the thickest of books at record speeds, devouring novels as if stopping to again face reality is too much, too painful, and he would rather bleed himself into the words of the wild tales he favors.

Yet Deuce does not interpret his words as such.

Instead he colors, eyes widening in shock and disgust at how blunt he believes Ace to be. Realizing his mistake, Ace scrambles to set things right, to assure the prince that he had not meant to suggest he believes that Deuce also fantasizes about sucking on cocks, but—

Deuce raises a hand as Ace splutters.

He inhales; pauses; narrows his eyes as he glares at Ace across the hall.

“Okay,” he says in a low voice, “prove yourself.”

* * *

The guards are dismissed the moment Ace falls to his knees, hands flying to work Deuce free of his many layers. They leave, bewildered, this time unable to stop themselves from sharing confused looks as they undoubtedly question _why_ Deuce is not demanding Ace's death for calling his bluff.

Whatever his reasons, Ace is just glad to find he is easy to get hard, wasting no time in wrapping his lips around the silky head before Deuce can finish ordering the guards to get out, to only come back in if they hear him call for them.

Yes - whatever his reasons for allowing this to happen, Ace is grateful for Deuce's fingers in his hair, his cock swelling between his lips as he makes quick, vigorous work of the prince.

Within minutes he's shaking, breathless, and oh-so _dreadfully_ delicious.

“Stop,” Deuce pants, though his thighs tremble and spread wider on Ace's gentle nudge all the same, “just— _stop_ , you'll make me—I can't let you m-make me—”

“Sure you can,” Ace purrs, and where he pulls Deuce's cock from his throat he wraps his hand instead, keeping his rhythm, forcing the back of Deuce's head to hit the golden throne with a high, desperate whine. “No one gives a fuck, Your Highness. No one's here to judge you. You can use me however you want—” Punctuated by a roll of tongue to frenulum, of Deuce's nails biting into his own cheek, “—so make me gag. Make me choke. I'm your _property_ , aren't I? So own me.”

“Not property,” Deuce grinds out, grinds up into the tip of Ace's tongue flickering at his head, “not—you're not some-something to be used like—”

But his protest is lost in Ace's descent, in how those dark eyes narrow with glee, that sharp tongue curls at the edges to better suck Deuce down to the root.

Hands fly out, perfectly shaped nails cutting into Ace's scalp, as Deuce chokes on the air around a rasped rendition of Ace's name. _Ah, wouldn't that have been perfect,_ Ace thinks with a hum that fizzles down into the flex of Deuce's toes, his boots several feet away thanks to Ace flinging them (for he wants his prince bare, his prince hard, his prince one day bound with his wrists above his head, ankles strapped to a spreader bar, open and waiting and as mortal as any other man in the kingdom—)

_Wouldn't it be gut-churningly satisfying to have him moan his lowly jester's name at the height of passion?_

But it’s when Deuce's spine arches, his chest strains under his shirt until the buttons are pulled taut, that Ace, fueled, dares to push his luck further than reason tells him is wise. It's there at his knees, Deuce's quivering atop his shoulders, that Ace rearranges just enough to not draw attention to what he’s doing, to free a hand and curve his fingers to _reach_.

Deuce is close – Ace can see it in the fevered flush of his cheeks, the sweat that dampens his hair clinging to his neck, the perpetual tremor that shivers through him on every bob of head and roll of tongue – but Ace is going to finish him off.

No one's ever touched the prince like this – Ace is confident in this fact, if nothing else – giving Ace exclusive knowledge of how he feels when cupped, rolled, and gently, gently squeezed.

The effect is instant, pre-cum flooding Ace's mouth at once because Deuce is crying – literally – from the added effect of getting fondled while deepthroated. His hips twitch up, hand slapping to mouth to strangle the cry that instead escapes, reverberating through the hall to only better cause Ace to strain painfully hard in his pants.

“That's e-enough,” Deuce groans, but he is _begging_ , not demanding, not exercising his right as ruler to cut short that which he should be hating, “that's— _ah_ —th-this—”

Deuce sobs.

Deuce gasps.

And Ace watches through his eyelashes as his prince pulses against his tongue, writhes helplessly in his seat, legs spreading wider still until he's surely lost all control over how violently he's trembling—

Blue eyes peer down at Ace through a sheet of liquid starlight before the tears tumble, tracking diamonds down to pool at his chin, to sparkle at his chest.

And Deuce, his voice raw, his breath labored, breathes, _“this feels too good.”_

Ace could die for what he's doing. There is no question about it. Should Deuce decide that the humiliation of being seen to be defiled by the court's entertainer's hands was too much to live with, all he need do was say the word, and Death would await.

Yet in those moments where Deuce holds his gaze, startled into silence by his own admission, Ace believes he sees no threat behind the tears in the prince's heart. Whatever whim he had acted upon has taken them both equally, leaving them to flounder helpless and lost to lust and need and that slick, wet heat of tongue to shaft, fingers to sac.

He's captivating – has _always_ been captivating to Ace in his unparalleled kindness to the less fortunate, in his awkward nods, the way he remembered Ace's _name_ and not his _role_ – and Ace, perhaps not surprisingly, deems this act worthy of execution, should it come to it.

But first, he pauses. He licks a line from root to tip to pause to suck a wet kiss to red head; Deuce quivers, sucks in a rattling breath, inviting and enticing in all his wanton glory, splayed open and confused by the sudden stop.

“I'm sorry,” Deuce murmurs, and Ace is struck by the absurdity of the prince apologizing to the jester who has happily manhandled him on the spin of nothing but a _dare_ — “I meant—” and oh, he _flushes_ brilliant crimson, coming back to his sensibilities a little now that Ace is still, save for the tip of his tongue that flickers, flickers, flickers to frenulum— “It's not good; I wasn't saying I am _enjoying_ this,” Deuce huffs, yet seems mesmerized by Ace's hunger, his less than polite fumble at his pants to fist his own cock.

“Yes, you were,” Ace rasps, a roll of his hips sliding his dick into his hold, the relief almost intoxicating. “You're so close, Your Highness – so _close_ to coming down my throat as you weep my name—”

Deuce's throat bobs, swallowing, his already ravaged lip tucking back between his teeth—

(He probably can't imagine what this does to Ace; can't begin to know of how his embarrassment rips through Ace, cutting deeper and deeper until something _vile_ is summoned to _ruin_ —)

“I was _not_ —” Deuce begins, but Ace, daring, caution discarded, presses on:

“I can make it even better,” he swallows around his suddenly parched tongue, head spinning, nerves wailing in protest to not throw his life away for something so insane. “I can make you feel things you'll have never thought possible, my prince, if you’ll let me... if your imagination extends that far, of course,” he finishes with a hint of a smirk.

There is no doubt that Deuce knows exactly what Ace means. It's the widening of his eyes, the dilating of his pupils, that gives him away. Then comes the quickened breath; the rapid heartbeat that is palpable under Ace's tongue that roves along the seam of Deuce's groin, tasting his longing.

He is going to die for even suggesting that he fingers his prince.

Ace smiles into warm skin and acceptance, waiting on Deuce's disgust.

Yet instead, the prince continues to surprise the jester who thought, once, that only boring banality courses through the veins of the monarchs. For he touches him gently, tenderly, runs fingertips from crown to ear to jawline, effortlessly asking Ace to raise his face from where he presses teeth to artery, final breath to the thrum of life.

A nod, once he is looking into Deuce's eyes again; a nod, curt and firm, mouth downturned in defiance against—what? Who? The world? The stigma?

And Ace shudders under that permission, now his turn to flush, as he shifts to get comfortable and says in a rush:

“As you wish.”

Deuce jumps on the descent from scrotum to perineum, twitching back into his throne with a sharp gasp. He's warm here too – soft, supple, giving with ease under the probing press of fingertips to the front of nerves that must _ache_ – and his legs spasm, still draped over Ace's shoulders. Irrevocable, it is – _this_ , the shortness of breath that leads to the room spinning—the saliva that collects at Ace's tongue, wetting the head of Deuce's cock when he sinks back down to guide him in between teeth and lips.

Irrevocable – a permanent choice made. Either way, whatever happens, there will be consequences to the deft slide downwards that accompanies Deuce's quickened breaths, the dribble of precum that leaks, that is licked away with a starved groan.

Ace finds his rim, and the light-headedness takes over.

Stars glitter in his vision as he presses against his prince, moving with him on Deuce's arch of his spine, the deep, tremulous gasp of breath on that first experience of being touched so intimately. In Ace's mouth he swells, the thick head of his cock almost gagging Ace as he is taken down to the root again, and—

A hand slides down the back of his head to hold him in position while Deuce shakes above him, muffled by the teeth sunk into lip to anchor their hold, eyes squeezed shut, Ace notes on glancing up.

Is it that good? A simple touch – and now a slow, careful circling around, around, around – enough to make him react as such? For fingers snatch and twist into the front of Deuce's shirt in what Ace assumes to be another fumble for control, and he writhes where he is folding deeper and deeper into his seat, into further tracks of tears.

It is unthinkable… but then again, there is nothing about this scenario that resembles plausibility in the first place.

“Tell me to stop,” Ace breathes against the flushed head of Deuce's dick, letting his saliva-slicked lips drag his words to sensitive skin, “at any point, and I will.” When Deuce's only response is a whine in questioning, his knuckles turning white as his grip tightens at his shirt, Ace clarifies, “you don't have to go through with anything you don't want to do.”

Yet he does not remove his finger tracing smooth circles to Deuce's rim; nor does he move away, staying perfectly in place where he lets his lips skim over frenulum and slit, gathering the new pearl of precum, licking it from his lips (to savor, to use as fuel to swell thick in his lap where his hand has abandoned its grip to better attend to his prince).

Deuce sighs – high, thin, shivery – and frowns at Ace. Or at least he attempts to, though the effect is lost in light of his deep flush, his tears, the almost casual tilt of his hips upwards to nudge the head of his cock to Ace's upper lip.

“Of course I don't,” and ah, _yes_ , his voice too is silvery high, breathless and as soft as his body is against Ace's fingertip. “Of course I don't _have_ to—you h-hold no power over me. Don't assume yourself to have any—” His breath hitches as Ace's lips close around his head, the pressure against his entrance increasing, “—a-any – _ahh_ —”

A full-bodied shiver; fingers – those previously twisted into his shirt – twine themselves in his own damp hair, anchor there, tug and pull as he hisses behind clenched teeth. Ace has only laved tongue to skin, but the effect this wrings from Deuce is enough to make Ace moan, his dick straining, aching.

“Then,” Ace breathes as he draws back just enough to set alight fire in Deuce's dark eyes, “I'll make sure to swallow everything.”

It is this confirmation that Deuce is enjoying himself – whether he denies it outright or not – that sees Ace releasing the base of Deuce's cock to fist his own again, working off the pressure. Deuce notices – there's no way he doesn't, not with how he tracks the hurried jerk of Ace's elbow – but does nothing, says nothing, outside of swallowing a shaky breath.

Ace doesn't ask if he's ready.

Ace doesn't do much of what he _should_ have done, such as avoid giving in to the whim of tasting royalty on a tongue so unworthy in the first place. The temptation should have been ignored, laughed away, as anyone with more love for their lives would have done. To fall for the taunt had been his undoing; to call the prince's bluff and to then unashamedly mouth him to curved desperation had been too far.

_Too far._

_Too far?_

_How far is too far when the goal isn't prolonged life? How far is too far when against all the odds, his wish has come true?_

Was his rise to Deuce's goading really by chance? Was the act perhaps not sincere and true, the culminated yearning of too many years and too many missed opportunities to lay himself bare for his prince's destruction? For it is not just today, now, that Ace has wanted to taste him; it has been with each passing smile, the laughter, the sadness that pools in Deuce's eyes that his family pay no heed to, ever, sitting eternally alone in library, in bedroom, on balcony and gardens—

Sometimes, when getting ahead of himself, Ace imagines sitting beside Deuce in those moments. Comforting him. Learning him. Closing a rift between noble and servant that no words or actions may ever fill.

The vain musings of the Fool of the court.

His middle finger sinks in with a firm, dry press, Deuce's dick forgotten for the moment. Forehead to thigh, lips wet and cock wetter still, Ace moans with abandon at the sensation of Deuce taking him, soft and warm and _tight_.

He's forgotten to ease the slide, to wet his fingers before pressing in. He pauses – though not until fully sheathed in heat that leaves him soaking and trembling enough to mimic Deuce – and gauges, worried, for if he has hurt the prince then this all comes to an end.

There's pain pinching at Deuce's brow above tear-laced lashes when Ace glances up, his mouth set in a firm line—before he is arching, gasping, _moaning_ in tandem with the hook of Ace's finger into his prostate. Hands scrabble blindly for Ace's face, nails grazing over freckles then coming to settle twisted deep into thick black hair.

“What're you doing?” Deuce grinds out, sounding lost, confused _(aroused, distressed_ because _he is aroused)_. Before Ace can panic and backtrack through withdrawing, though, Deuce adds, “what—why does that _feel_ so...” He casts around, lands on, “so _much?”_

It's almost funny. Almost adorable. How Deuce has agreed to this without fully knowing _what_ he has agreed to. Had it been rumors he'd heard whispered in the corridors, perhaps, of fingering feeling good? Does he not know, then, _why_ it feels good? Curiosity has plainly never acquainted itself with the prince, otherwise he would already know first-hand just _how_ , and _why_ , and _where_ to rub and press and love to shuddered completion—

—As Ace does now, mouthing his grin to the inside of Deuce's thigh, lost in the sound of Deuce's cry on stroking so gently, precisely. He's soft inside, and it’s going to Ace's head as pleasurably as half a bottle of rum does, Deuce every bit as delicious as the finest of all liquor.

“Does it feel good?” Ace purrs into shivering skin, stroking within, captured by the twitches and flittering spasms that flicker across Deuce's face. He drips, precum pooling in his navel, he's bent so far at the waist – and Ace _aches_. “What does it feel like, Your Highness?”

“It feels—like—” He's struggling, writhing, tugging on Ace's hair the moment Ace picks up his pace, starts rubbing with intention, “—l-like it's too—like I'm gonna—” Tears fall again, accompanied by a low, startling groan of sheer frustration. “Get your mouth back on me,” Deuce begs, not orders, raw and pained. _“Please.”_

Pinpricks of pain erupt at Ace’s scalp as he delays just long enough to fasten lips to thigh, teasing the flushed skin between teeth that sink in with yet another bold stroke of daring. The rush of a sharp inhale accompanies the shiver that runs through Deuce’s thighs guides Ace’s groan, leaves him dripping into his fist; a string of saliva connects his lips to Deuce’s skin on pulling back, an angry red bloom of a mark left as temporary evidence of Ace’s recklessness.

And so Ace complies. Lips fastening around the slick cockhead once more, Ace groans in tandem with sinking down, taking his time to taste, to feel. Deuce thickens further, if possible, against his tongue, his fingers digging in deeper to the back of his head to press him down. Though, interestingly (for what of this situation _isn’t_ keenly fascinating?), the pressure is minimal, the intent less of a demand and more of a sign of desperation. 

Salt floods Ace’s tongue; Deuce bucks into him, slipping down the back of his throat—

And Ace gives in with a heated growl, whatever caution he still clung to discarded as a second finger is stuffed in along with the first, stretching the prince open around his dry touch.

It has to be uncomfortable – it _has_ to be painful, this lack of lube, the sudden ache of accepting more where before he had known nothing – but Deuce jerks in his seat, an audible _thump_ indicating he’s slammed his head into the back of the throne in—passion? Pain? Ace can’t tell for sure, relying more on the breathy quality of Deuce’s voice, the warning pulse that beats through his cock because he’s close, _he’s got to be close,_ Ace has the prince on the verge of coming and it’s because of _him_ —

So when Deuce gasps as Ace pulls up to draw focus to his head, to fiercely suck sloppy attention to sensitive frenulum in time with stroking fingertips to that swollen gland inside—Ace’s mind spins on its axis, bearings lost and coherent thoughts cut off.

There is only this moment; there’s nothing but Deuce’s cries ripped from a throat ragged with need, his single sob of _more_ that drives Ace to claw at the prince’s thigh, to haul him in closer, harder.

Ace’s mind is in freefall, and he’s certain that Deuce’s voice will alert the guards undoubtedly standing just on the other side of the chamber door—and he will die here, like this, fingers buried in royalty and hard for a man he can never truly hope to have in body and mind.

But they don’t come, not even when Deuce issues the most colorful array of gasps and moans, twisting in his seat as he’s eaten alive to stave off a hunger that can never be fully satisfied.

“ _Fuck,”_ Deuce curses for what Ace thinks is the first time he’s ever heard, the word leaving him in a choked rush, “ _Ace_ , I’m—”

There is no time to revel in Deuce’s use of his name.

No time to enjoy the honest desperation of his words, each syllable laced with that delicious tremble of imminent release.

For Deuce almost seems to ease into orgasm, his hips jerking up one final time to fill Ace’s throat with himself. He’s surprisingly silent as his release tears through him, his dick throbbing while Ace swallows him, clenching tight around Ace’s fingers and _shaking._

If there is one thing that Ace can now claim as his own, it is Deuce’s first – and possibly last – prostate orgasm.

The thought makes him want to laugh, absurdly. Instead, Ace groans, nose pressed into the flat of Deuce’s skin, not caring that he can’t breathe, not fazed in the slightest by how his nerves scream in protest that he is choking on cock and cum and he’s going to faint if he holds his position for too long.

The moment he pulls back – slowly, carefully, making sure to handle Deuce like fragile glass through his post-release rush of adrenaline, twitching from the very beginnings of overstimulation – Ace faces something infinitely more enjoyable than Deuce’s orgasm, or the taste of his cum that is audibly swallowed, licked from lips and swiped from chin.

It is how _fulfilled_ Deuce looks right now, strewn open and boneless. The once harsh breaths have been replaced with a rhythmic rate, his chest rising and falling gently. Where he had previously been close to tearing his shirt open with how he had grabbed at it, his hands now rest peaceful and weighted atop a knee, the other absently petting Ace’s hair. Tears track down his cheeks, but his expression is one of blank bliss – of a mind wiped clean of anxiety and stress by a damn good blowjob, if Ace’s opinion counts for anything – and he gazes into the middle distance, dark eyes heavily lidded.

Deuce doesn’t stir when Ace straightens up enough to calm the pressure on his bent back. He does, however, react to the slow withdrawal of fingers from him, jumping and blinking out of whatever reverie he had settled into.

The fingers woven into Ace’s hair slide downwards until they are cupping his cheek, the thumb stroking the freckles that adorn his skin (a blessing from his mother—his mother who he will meet again too soon, so soon, tonight, perhaps, or tomorrow).

Silence hangs thick between them, each caught by the beauty of the other, though neither attempting to say so.

(Though Ace, despite understanding the soft touches to his face, does not _allow_ himself to acknowledge that it is affection with which Deuce regards him.

For that is not possible.

He is mistaken.)

“Your Highness,” Ace murmurs, and, against his own better judgement, he leans into that touch, into a charade that he craves will come to life, willing it to stay for as long as he can keep their connection intact, “I’m—”

The thumb slides down at once to rest against his lips, begging his silence. Fingers curl under his chin to ask he raises it, and Ace does so willingly.

The anger he expects to meet is not there. There’s something warring within Deuce now, something that has come to ruin the bliss and fight its way into his heart. Is it terror? Regret? Ace can’t tell – but it is not the rage that a monarch should rightfully feel in a situation as humiliating as this.

“Don’t apologize.” Deuce’s plea is barely audible, gossamer and delicate. The weight of his thumb increases, crooking until the tip gently tugs down Ace’s wet lower lip, parting them. “Don’t.”

It is only for Deuce’s benefit that he would ever pretend he regretted what he has done. For himself? Never. It may have been stupid, and it may have been bordering on the precipice of insanity, but Ace can’t lie to himself and confess regret.

A kiss, then, is laid to the pad of Deuce’s thumb.

A kiss which is transferred to Deuce’s own lips from thumb to mouth, holding it there for one, two, three heavy heartbeats.

Whatever spell they were under shatters when Ace’s eyes widen, the start of a question forming in the back of his throat silenced by Deuce saying, “you should leave.” He glances down at Ace’s cock – still hard, still red, still aching to be buried inside of the prince – and adds, “you have ten minutes to take care of yourself. I’ll make your excuses, should anyone ask.”

This is unusual at best, and Ace struggles to keep up. “You’re not going to have anyone punish me?” He asks, noting the flush of color that this brings to Deuce’s cheeks. Pushing his luck further than anyone who values their life rightly would have, he continues with, “but why? I’ve just done something awful to you, so why—”

“I goaded you into it,” Deuce cuts in, but he is crimson, and he is shivering, though Ace wonders if it is purely the post-adrenaline rush leaving him jittery. “And, once you made it clear you weren’t bluffing, I…” He pauses, frowning, and, curiously, watches his own thumb tuck into his fist, then extends it, and repeats this process over and over as if it is meditative. “I had no intention of stopping you,” he says bluntly after a handful of tense seconds, frowning at Ace, “if you must know.”

The implications are too much, and Ace feels himself reeling with the realization that perhaps – just perhaps – the kind words had never been ones shared with many, and the lingering gazes had not been something that others were privy to. Maybe, then, using Ace’s name rather than derogatory title had not been a mistake, or some kind of warped display of power that had never made sense to Ace in the first place.

Ace’s nails scrape along Deuce’s knees as he unnecessarily helps to lift them from his shoulders, confused and lost and hopelessly hopeful in the face of not only survival, but now also the remotest of ridiculous possibilities that this could evolve into _something_ —

—that will never happen. Ever. The hope is a lost cause, and Ace knows this. Knows it as surely as he now knows that Deuce tastes sweet, or that Deuce will not complain of pain where others might.

And _yet_.

“I feel that you are suggesting something rather bold, Prince Deuce,” Ace murmurs, rising to his feet as Deuce does also.

“I wasn’t suggesting anything.” But he’s got the shadow of a smirk there, the faintest hint of a sparkle in his eyes. “You seem to have misunderstood.”

“So it would appear. My apologies.”

That night, Ace lies awake under the stars in the rose garden, his bed the earth, his lullaby the summer crickets.

The balcony of the prince’s room is where his focus is drawn, where his thoughts reside. It is the balcony of the prince’s room that holds his attention, thinking only of joining Deuce up there when the candles are extinguished and the maids have drawn the curtains.

It is in the rose garden that Ace lies, more alive than this morning, and more hopeful for the next.

**Author's Note:**

> The majority of this was written in DMs to a friend after they asked me to continue from the first random paragraph I wrote. It was inspired by a different friend sending me a meme and clowning on me lol. I hadn't planned to write this, and really it only exists because I wanted to write Deuce all desperate, so... Oh dear :D there may be errors, and there may be bits that I decide to rewrite after I read through this at a later date, but I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> I have my other _planned_ works in progress as well, and I hope you look forward to them in the near future!
> 
> I love chatting, so feel free to send me a message on either [Tumblr](https://chromiwrites.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Chromiwrites)! I'm always open to requests and chatting about these guys!


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